


heatwave (the nearness of you)

by iamthegeneralissimo



Category: Rizzoli & Isles
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers, give me rizzles or give me death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-06-29 06:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19824409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthegeneralissimo/pseuds/iamthegeneralissimo
Summary: A tribute to the OTP that got me into this fic writing nonsense in the first place. Or, a three act character study in which Maura and Jane dance around each other, then dance around some more, before finally, finally admitting their F-E-E-L-I-N-G-S.—“The unspoken agreement was this: that neither of them acknowledge there was anything at all to acknowledge about their dynamic. That the only indulgence they would allow themselves was the occasional lingering hand on an exposed thigh or forearm. Nothing more, nothing less. The alternative, they mutually, wordlessly agreed, would be catastrophic—anything more than a friendly peck on the cheek in greeting to be taken as the harbinger of the end of six years of platonic bliss.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “Summer in the city  
> Means cleavage, cleavage, cleavage”
> 
> -Regina Spektor, 2006

Jane and Maura always ended up in moments like these. Moments in which the world around them receded into nothingness. Moments of quiet contemplation interspersed with knowing glances and mouths upturned in silent, shared mirth. It didn’t matter where they were or who happened to be around. It became second nature, navigating department techs and beat cops at crime scenes as though the two of them were celestial bodies constantly being dragged into each other’s orbit. The air between them buzzed, perpetually warm, with an energy palpable enough for people to detect and steer clear of.

Who wanted to get in the way of all that eye-fucking anyway? It was just plain rude. 

They found themselves in moments like these down at the morgue. The two of them would stand over Maura’s cold, lifeless patients admiring the stitching on her y-incisions while the sheer volume of words left unspoken seemed enough to animate the bodies out of their forever-slumber.

Jane would find safety in her off-color humor: ‘What a way to go, huh? Baseball bat to the noggin. Hard to bounce back from that.’ _Those heels really bring out the definition in your calves._

Maura would allow a curt ‘it would appear so,’ before ignoring her detective and continuing the rest of her monologue into her recorder: ‘Repeated blunt force trauma to the cranium, lacerations above the right orbital socket. Need to check for either sub- or epidural hematoma.’ Her eyes would flick up to assess the woman across her. _There’s a mustard stain on your shirt from that hotdog stand you and Frost frequent downtown. You should take it off and let me take care of it for you._

Maura probably wouldn’t bat an eyelash even if her cadavers overcame rigor just to say, _give in already for fuck’s sake—you know you want to._ Even Frost and Korsak knew better than to interrupt when they came calling. They’d take one look through the large windows, turn right back around and mutter, ‘We can always come back later, right?’ Money would sometimes change hands in the hopes that maybe this time Jane would finally pull her head out of her ass. 

Jane pretended not to notice anything, of course. Not the water cooler gossip or the will-they-or-won’t-they pool she knew the rest of the bullpen had going. She pretended not to notice a lot of things despite it being a skill that she’d basically honed her entire career. Instead she’d choose to thread her long fingers through unruly curls, brushing them back with impatience and huffing every now and again about Detective Crowe’s incompetence or a technician’s mishandling of evidence at her crime scenes. 

‘I mean, really,’ she’d grumbled out loud the other day. ‘How hard is it to bag and tag a bunch of spent casings without contaminating them? Put your goddamn gloves on first, rookie. _Jesus_.’

‘Quit being a dick, Rizzoli,’ Frost piped good naturedly.

‘I will when they do their jobs like they’re supposed to,’ she shot back, sneaking glances at her medical examiner in between taking potshots at the newbies. Maura had worn her hair down that day and it cascaded down her back in perfectly coiffed waves. But if anyone asked, she most certainly did _not_ notice and would refuse to attest to the fact even under extreme legal duress. In fact, she was much too busy being _disinterested_ in the alluring combination of bare arms and impeccably tailored couture that brought out the hazel in Maura’s eyes.

Six years of pretending to not be in love with her best friend came to her as easy as breathing. And if she overcame her childhood asthma through sheer force of will she could very well pretend that Doctor Isles wasn’t, in all likelihood, the love of her life. 

_At least she’s trying_ , Maura would smile to herself as she held her own responses in check. She remained committed to her work even as she felt Jane’s gaze rove freely, fully cognizant of the possibility that Jane could be undressing her in her mind. Maura knew the effect she had at the precinct—hell, the entire force for that matter—but she could only bring herself to care about what Jane thought.

On one terribly slow morning just weeks ago, Angela had beamed at her from behind the precinct cafe counter: ‘Maura, you’re looking extra lovely today.’ She set a pair of tongs down by the register louder than Maura thought necessary and nodded at her daughter, who thumbed through the day’s paper with a coffee cup firmly in her grasp. ‘Doesn’t Doctor Isles look extra lovely today, Jane?’

Jane brought the cup to her lips and took a gulp before turning around. Maura could only smirk when Jane started coughing. Jane’s eyes watered as she bobbed her head, taking in the tight, blue sleeveless dress Maura was sporting, and managed to splutter, ‘Nice, doc—you look nice.’ She cleared her throat, downed more hot coffee, and mumbled something about paperwork and the excellent return on investment of a good blazer before excusing herself. 

If it were any other week, their nightly discussion of whatever case had so preoccupied them during the day would be standard, expected even, over dinner or drinks at either woman’s apartment. The unspoken agreement was this: that neither of them acknowledge there was anything at all to acknowledge about their dynamic. That the only indulgence they would allow themselves was the occasional lingering hand on an exposed thigh or forearm. Nothing more, nothing less. The alternative, they mutually, wordlessly agreed, would be catastrophic—anything more than a friendly peck on the cheek in greeting to be taken as the harbinger of the end of six years of platonic bliss.

While Jane felt the fear of Maura’s rejection so acutely it haunted her dreams and left her gasping for air, Maura on the other hand was patient by nature and resigned herself to the fact that some games just run long. Like, really long. Chess appealed to her for this very reason and her aptitude for the game lent itself to calculated traversal across the board, a confident hand shifting pieces here and there, weaving masterful traps and elegant counterattacks—knowing full well that every opening gambit shapes the endgame. That certain outcomes are determined before a game even begins. That the true lesson of every match, she’d tell herself, was about the journey, the trip, the _adventure_. The friends you make and pine for along the way.

If it were any other week, Maura knew, their routine would have continued. They could have kept playing their charade. But tonight felt different.

Jane caught a double homicide during a heatwave which put the entire city on edge. The case remained stubbornly unsolved, the heatwave unabated. Jane had chased one too many perps down steaming, garbage-strewn alleys with sweat pooling under her dress shirt while letting out a string of choice profanities in Italian. And Maura had the audacity to appear at her crime scenes flawless and seemingly unperturbed by the spike in ambient temperature. The only indication she responded to the heat at all manifested itself in a single rivulet of sweat gathering at her collarbone and disappearing into the confines of that day’s pristine silk blouse. 

Top two buttons tastefully undone, Jane noted, through the fog of her exhaustion.


	2. Chapter 2

Jane lets herself through Maura’s front door using a set of keys cut just for her—‘In case there’s an emergency with your mother,’ her friend’s words echo in her head—and calls out once. But the only response she gets is a piano tinkling over the speaker system. She sighs. The back door, she notices, is ajar so she makes her way toward it. She steps out onto the deck to the hum of cicadas and a light breeze.

Maura’s garden, as far as Jane can tell, is the prettiest on her block. It’s certainly the most garden-like. Her Beacon Hill neighbors eschewed actual vegetation in favor of modern outdoor art pieces, slabs of granite for seating, impractical water features and light fixtures intricate enough to be their own museum exhibit. Perfect, Jane supposes, for entertaining crowds on balmy summer nights like this one.

Maura heard her neighbors’ voices carrying over her fence easily and often. How wonderful it must be, she’d muse, being constantly surrounded by good company; she on the other hand preferred keeping her lush oasis to herself. An oasis that to the untrained eye appeared overgrown and unkempt but every blade of grass, every tendril and vine, was in fact accounted for and monitored closely. Maura allowed very few facets of her life to exist unchecked, except for the way her body betrayed her every time a certain detective drew near.

And draw nearer Jane does. She charts a single-minded course to Maura lying on her back, still in her work outfit, absently picking at strands of grass. ‘Hey, doc,’ comes a raspy greeting and Maura finds her view of the night sky interrupted by a mane of dark hair and a lopsided grin. Jane kicks off her boots and stretches out on the ground beside her. 'Hey yourself,’ Maura reaches over and squeezes Jane’s arm.

Jane tries her best to ignore the swoop in her stomach. ‘Figured you were out here. I brought some takeout. You hungry?’ But Maura shakes her head and replies, ‘I ate something just before you arrived.’

'Did it pair nicely with whatever was in the now-empty bottle of wine sitting on your countertop?’

'It did actually,’ Maura shoots her a wounded glare. ‘More importantly, how are you feeling?’

Jane withers just a little. She can feel Maura’s eyes probing, willing her to answer a question she already knows the answer to. Articulating anything was a formality at this point in their relationship: a reminder to pretend to still be separate entities instead of the intertwined unit they so easily had become. 'Swell, Maura.’ Jane’s voice is hoarse. ‘Real swell. Just another day at the office—your average double homicide with absolutely no leads, all the overtime a girl could want and no one, nothing and even less energy to spend it on.’

 _You could take me out to dinner._ Maura almost quips but she bites back her tongue and returns her gaze to the inky canvas above them. She listens to Jane speak until she runs out of steam, offering small nods and affirmative noises until—

‘—I’m just so,’ Jane closes her eyes. ‘Tired. So goddamn tired.’ She despises how small her voice sounds and she hates both her mind and her body for giving up on her now, right when she needs both to continue the work she so desperately wants done.

Maura says simply, ‘I know.’ She gives Jane arm another sympathetic squeeze. Her own caseload hadn’t been light that week either but she was always more adept at compartmentalizing and could always be counted on to be frighteningly competent even at her most vulnerable. It scared her sometimes the way Jane’s unwavering empathy and dedication to her job constantly bested her.

But mostly Maura wishes she could be more like Jane. She’d witnessed firsthand how Jane had to process one of the youngest victims she’d ever hand the misfortune of working on. She watched as Jane held the victim’s mother tight as she cried and balled her fists against Jane’s chest. ‘She’d just started second grade,’ the mother whispered in between strangled sobs. Maura had stood a fair distance away from the whole exchange and wondered if she’d ever be able to withstand such an emotional onslaught.

'You’ll check in on her later,’ she heard Frost say, now suddenly by her side. ‘Won’t you, doc?’ And just as quickly as he appeared, he left to join Jane before she could ask what he meant.

Just before she turned in for bed later that night she heard a quiet rap on her door. So quiet she wasn’t sure she even heard anything at all until her phone lit up with a text message. She made her way downstairs and opened her door to find Jane in sweatpants and a threadbare shirt. Jane slipped her phone into her back pocket.

'I couldn’t sleep,’ she shrugged. Maura’s only response was to step aside and let her friend in. She noted the bloodshot eyes and half-stumble as Jane stepped over the threshold.

She refused to leave Maura’s house for the rest of that week.

Maura is jolted out of the memory when Jane says, ‘I’m sorry for the emotional dump. I know you haven’t had the easiest week either. It’s nice to be able to come home—’ Maura can almost hear Jane’s eyes snap open, ‘—come here and ah, decompress, you know?’

'You know you’ve been doing it long enough that you don’t have to thank me or apologize for it,’ Maura chastises before standing up and smoothing down her skirt. ‘Wait here.’

Jane watches as Maura pads barefoot back to the house. She allows herself the deepest of breaths, picking up the scent of approaching rain and dwarf peach trees laden with fruit. The air is laced with something else—Maura’s perfume, simultaneously sweet and musky, drifting her way.

She remembers being mildly surprised, when she hugged Maura for the first time all those years ago, that Maura smelled of things like sandalwood, salt and seabreeze—almost exactly like men Jane had dated, a thought she pushed right into the recesses of her mind.

Maura had actually convinced Jane once to accompany her to a custom perfumery—Jane rubbed her hands in glee, knowing Maura would be unprepared for her biggest, most epic eye roll at this new bougie ritual—on their lunch break. The attendant was an old friend of Maura’s; they’d gone to BCU together and swapped stories leaving Jane to peruse the shelves on her own.

She only felt a little jealous of the way the other woman let her hand rest of Maura’s forearm. A little spurned, if she were forced to admit it. And she found it strange the way they kept looking back at her and traded smiles.

Why did Maura need her there anyway?

When they were back in the car Maura handed her a tissue-wrapped box. ‘Open it,’ she said breathlessly.

‘What, now?’

Maura nodded. Jane scratched at the sticker seal and peeled the wrappings to find a handsome, if plain, crystal bottle. ‘It’s you,’ Maura offered.

'Excuse me?’

Maura took the bottle from Jane’s hands and explained, ‘It’s a custom scent. I had them build a profile for you.’ She took the stopper out, turned Jane’s wrist over and placed a few droplets there. ‘This is how you smell to me.’ She brought Jane’s wrist closer to her and took a deep breath.

'It’s you,’ she repeated, looking fiercely proud of herself.

—

Maura returns with a tumbler of scotch. ‘I haven’t had time to buy your beer so I’m hoping this will do.’ She raises a tumbler of her own in Jane’s direction before taking a sip.

'Thanks,’ Jane says with uncertainty. She’s never seen Maura with anything other than wine before, chalkiness be damned. Before she realizes it she’s staring openly at Maura taking longer draws from her drink.

‘What? It’s been a long day.’

And so they sit together, upright now and staring at nothing in particular, basking in the same contemplative silence which marked their friendship. Maura lets her head rest against Jane’s shoulder.

‘Maura—’

‘Jane, I—’

A pause. The two women look at each other and smile.

'I missed you this week.’ Jane finds herself saying. ‘I didn’t have a whole lot of time to drop by the morgue.’

'I missed you too,’ Maura answers back, far too easily for her own liking. ‘I never realized how quiet it could actually be down there without you barging in every half hour.’ She pokes Jane’s side and is rewarded with a laugh when she adds, ‘I got so much work done.’

'Hey, you like it when I stomp my man shoes down the steps and through those doors.’

‘I do,’ agrees Maura. ‘A little too much, I think.’ She sips on her scotch and savors the sting of the alcohol on her tongue; her cheeks grow increasingly warm. Jane thundered down the stairs any chance she got so Maura started tracking her basal metabolic responses just for fun. Increased cardiac activity, activated adrenal glands, flushed cheeks—dead giveaways she cursed her body for.

Susie caught the slow spread of a grin once and it was much too late to mask it with a cough. She’d narrowed her eyes at her boss then at the detective who hurled herself through Maura’s office doors just seconds later. ‘Detective Rizzoli,’ Susie nodded.

'Yo, Chang. What’s up?’ Jane fired the greeting off quickly before exclaiming to Maura, ‘We got them. They confessed.’ And Maura doesn’t quite remember now who the perpetrator was or what they’d confessed to. All that remained clear was Jane’s unbridled enthusiasm.

She was a witness to all of Jane’s other moments too, the ones she was certain no one else was allowed to see. Every press cutting tacked onto the precinct announcement board and every medal or ribbon pressed against Jane’s dress blues exacted a steep cost. Maura had lost track of the number of times she’d exit the precinct and into the garage only to find her Prius and Jane’s beat up cruiser the only cars left in the lot. She’d sigh then turn around and march back up to the bullpen to find Jane asleep on her desk with her blazer folded up into a pillow.

‘Time to go home, Jane.’ She’d shake her best friend awake enough to lead her to the elevator, out of the building and into Maura’s car, blinking owlishly the entire time. Jane would always manage to nod off again in the passenger seat. ‘This isn’t my apartment,’ she would mutter in half-hearted protest as Maura pulled back the covers in her guest bedroom.

'Well spotted, detective.’ Maura would respond with a wry smile as she removed Jane’s boots. ‘You’ll make sergeant in no time.’

Present Maura looks down at a notification on her smartwatch. Then up at Jane. ‘Don’t panic but— ’

The sprinklers came on.


	3. Chapter 3

# Chapter 3

Both women jump to their feet but neither of them move from where they’re standing. At least not straightaway. ‘It’s kind of nice,’ Jane says amiably. ‘I mean at least it’s not so hot anymore.’

Maura lets out a strangled noise, watching as the water soaks nearly every inch of Jane’s white button down. ‘Jane, we should—’

‘Yep,’ Jane nods when she notices where Maura’s line of vision ends.

Maura lets out a laugh when Jane holds the back door open for them with an exaggerated bow. It’s silly, she knows, because she’s perfectly capable of opening doors for herself but at least this way Jane can’t see how unsteady her hands have become as she cradles their glassware to her chest. She heads into the kitchen to refresh their drinks.

'I’ll grab us some towels,’ Jane informs Maura and makes her way through the house. Her eyes land on the sculptures dotting Maura’s mantle. There are, amongst geodes on small daises and textiles in frames, Tuareg artefacts picked up from Maura’s medical stints along the Horn of Africa. They stand like sentinels in the half-light, like silent watchmen—Maura’s keepers. Jane pictures scorched earth and limitless horizons and wonders whether she should be more adventurous, more open to trying new things, even when Boston runs deep and true in her veins. Boston and jealousy, when she realizes there are parts of Maura she’s barely scratched the surface of. She’s never been brave enough to ask Maura about Africa because to talk about Africa was to open the floodgates to Ian.

Still she yearns to know and to sink her teeth into the very meat of her. Maura Dorothea Isles—who was she, really?

Jane takes to the stairs remembering to skip the creaky fifth step even though no one is around to hear it and vows not for the first time in recent memory to get it fixed. Maybe one day Maura might even Jane to do it herself, and maybe Jane will make a show of protesting or threaten to do a terrible job. But maybe she looks forward to Maura telling her that she wouldn’t trust anyone else to do it anyway. And then maybe once the step is fixed she’ll take Maura in her arms and carry her up them and into bed.

As she turns the brass knob of the linen closet she tries not to think about counting Maura’s teeth with her tongue.

‘Here,’ Jane says when she is safely back downstairs and away from the temptation of Maura’s bedroom. Jane drapes a fluffy white towel on Maura’s shoulders and starts dabbing absently at damp tendrils.

Suddenly Maura goes still. ‘Jane,’ she whispers, grabbing the hand now inexplicably stroking her cheek. ‘What are you doing?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean. This,’ she gestures at the lack of space between them. Pressing into her back is the edge of her kitchen counter. ‘You.’

'What about me?’ Jane’s movements slow. She raises her eyes to meet Maura’s and realizes that at this distance she can count every downward slope of her lashes. ‘What are we doing?’ Maura repeats.

'Maura, I don’t want—‘ Jane starts. But to acknowledge that there was anything to acknowledge between them, she reminds herself, would be folly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ _Liar, liar, pants an uncontrollable bushfire._ Every cell in her body sings for Maura’s mouth, plush and supple and only inches away. Maura’s hand, wrapped around her own, burns.

Jane is cast back into a memory of working a case last summer just on the fringes of her jurisdiction. Her cruiser had refused to start even after Maura gave the engine a quick once-over. Why she even had Maura with her, she didn’t know; she was never one for procedure. They’d radioed dispatch who sent Frost and Frankie working the field just a few miles away.

In the car Maura had fallen asleep on her shoulder and didn’t stir once on the way back to the precinct. She’d just returned from back to back conferences and was thrown into work straightaway. It was the only time Jane had ever seen her so tired. She permitted herself a single, selfish act and placed her hand experimentally on Maura’s. Certain that she was indeed fast asleep, Jane entwined their fingers together, and if Frankie saw he was smart enough not to say anything.

Maura’s hand burned then the same way it does now.

'Jane,’ her tone is gentler, ‘I adore you. I have for as long as we’ve known each other.’ Maybe it’s time, Jane thinks she hears Maura say, to take the next step. Next step? Maura was asking her to leap and all she wanted to ask was, _how high?_

And yet Jane finds herself saying, ‘I can’t.’

Maura schools her face into impassivity. She watches as Jane sinks slowly to the floor, burying her face into her hands. ‘I can’t Maura. You’re asking too much.’

'You won’t lose me,’ Maura reassures, as though she can read Jane’s mind. She reaches up to wind her fingers in Jane’s hair, scratching lightly at the base of her skull. Jane leans into the touch. ‘In fact, you’ll have more of me than before.’ Even as Maura says this, she knows she can’t guarantee Jane anything. The pattern they’d established over the years was a source of comfort but it also ushered in a complacency they’d never fully managed to shake off. Not until this catalyst of a moment. They’d gone through the motions of friendship because there was nothing else to do, nowhere else to go and the next step she knew for Jane seemed insurmountable. Cadavers she could handle—and living, breathing patients if the need arose—but the tender flesh of this matter she was less sure of.

To parse the heart’s desires was not an elective offered at BCU.

She’d told herself that she could wait, that she _would_ wait, but the moment was upon them now and her self-discipline waned with every finger she tangled in Jane’s hair. (There might be time for pulling later, she thinks to herself, even though they’d barely kissed.)

'Maura,’ Jane says quietly. She can feel the other woman’s face inch closer and the very ground beneath her eroding with every passing second.

'Jane,’ Maura whispers back. She lifts Jane’s hand to place a kiss against her knuckles. Again she whispers Jane’s name but this time she kisses the tip of her index finger. Maura pauses before seeking the other woman’s eyes.

'Jane.’

Something snaps almost audibly within Jane when she watches her finger disappear into the wet heat of Maura’s mouth. She may have even let out a whimper when she feels that finger slide farther and farther past parted lips, past sharp teeth, to rest on the pad of Maura’s tongue.

Before she even realizes it, her mouth is on Maura’s and the next few minutes pass in a blur of limbs and partially discarded clothing.

—

'Maura,’ Jane gasps. ‘Wait. _Wait_.’

The universal remote digs into her back where she lies on the sofa but Maura waits. She’s always been good at waiting for Jane. Years of practice, she chalks it down to.

She drags her fingernail absently against a scar on Jane’s shin. ‘Fell off a bike,’ the other woman takes a moment to clarify. ‘When I was twelve I got Frankie to push me down the biggest slope in Roxbury.’ Maura’s brows furrow but a smile plays at her lips. She points to a pale sliver of raised tissue on her outer thigh. ‘Collecting plutonic rocks on a bluff in Iceland. I was nine.’

Jane whistles, ‘You win.’ She stares at the expanse of skin laid bare before her. 'We don’t have to do anything, you know.’

'I know, Jane.’

'We could just put our clothes back on and pretend like nothing happened.’

Maura shifts and presses herself against Jane, using her tongue to paint a broad swathe from the base of her neck to behind her ear. ‘No, I don’t think we could.’

'No?’ Jane shudders.

'It would be cruel to leave me wanting now that I know what you taste like.’ Jane shudders again when Maura captures her earlobe between her teeth. ‘But we could stop if you like. Pretend like there’s nothing between us. That there _could_ be something between us.’

Jane’s knees hit the floor before her mind catches up to what’s happening. She takes a moment to press her cheek against the plane of Maura’s stomach before placing a kiss there. She feels Maura’s hands winding themselves in her hair again, her grip alternating between slackened and firm before taking a fistful and dragging Jane’s head back.

Maura kisses her, messy and quick, and Jane finds herself darting her own tongue against Maura’s. Jane’s fingers scrabble for purchase against the zip of Maura’s skirt. _Too fast?_ Jane wonders. No, not when you’ve years worth of foreplay to work with.

The sound of metal parting and fabric pooling on the floor echo in their ears.

'Bedroom,’ Maura chokes out. ‘Now.’ Jane doesn’t protest when she’s dragged back onto her feet and down the hall because the image of Maura without her skirt strikes her dumb.

When Jane looks back on this night, itself dwarfed eventually by all the other nights and early mornings that follow, she remembers the way Maura splayed her fingers against her skin as though she couldn’t quite believe her own eyes. Jane will remember, as she stirs sugar into tomorrow’s third coffee, how Maura eased her against the pillows and trailed kisses down her body. How they’d established without speaking a rhythm when Maura buried her head square between her thighs. ‘More,’ Jane gasped with every finger Maura added until being wrist-deep was, finally, enough. Jane will feel the ghost of her orgasm—the delicious stretch and blissful sting of it—right in the middle of the ballistics workshop Frost runs the next day and will feel only momentarily mortified.

In no person other than Maura had she ever placed that much trust in.

'All of it,’ she heard herself beg. ‘ _Yes._ ’

She’d never begged anyone else before either.

Jane lets Maura hold her until her heart stops racing, ever conscious of Maura rubbing her thighs together. ‘Come up here,’ Jane instructs when she manages to reintroduce air to her lungs, and Maura’s eyes widen for the briefest of moments. She slides up and braces herself against the headboard. ‘Oh my god, yes,’ Jane manages to hiss before Maura grinds out her release.

She doesn’t know it now but not long after, when the time comes to thank them, brash and fearless Jane Rizzoli will cower in the face of a hundred or so of her wedding guests. The crowd is made up mostly of family, friends and at least half of the precinct. Cavanaugh even gives her a gruff hug before the reception starts. She doesn’t know it now, but Maura will slide her hand up against the small of Jane’s back and look up at her encouragingly. She’ll stutter a few more times until Maura eventually rises from her seat to save the day.

Jane will notice however, as she sinks back into her own, Frost palming something off to Korsak.

'MIT and that’s final, Korsak.’

'You’re dreaming. Firstborn goes to Stanford, then into politics—‘

Frost almost giggles.

'—and the _second_ goes to MIT. Aeronautical engineering,’ Korsak finishes.

'Driving a hard bargain there. But you’re on, old man.’

**Author's Note:**

> Fuckin’ Rizzles, man. Gets me every time. Come find me @soyelgeneralissimo on tumblr so we can talk about our feelings.


End file.
